Civil Disobedience
by Heart of a Music Box
Summary: Jonathan Harker has disobeyed Count Dracula and chosen to sleep somewhere other than his own bedroom. Here is my take on what would happen if he chose another room, instead of the one housing the Brides.  Dracula/Jonathan slash .


"_Let me advise you, my dear young friend-nay, let me warn you with all seriousness-that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then…"_

(Stoker 38)

**ooOoo**

Jonathan was not a brazen man. He wasn't on par with some of the men he'd gone to school with, the ones who dived off treacherous cliffs and swam with enormous and carnivorous fishes to entertain themselves. He was usually content to spend a day seated in a sunny spot, preferably by a window, buried up to his nose in newspapers or in a novel or biography deemed excellent by Mina, whose scholarliness far surpassed his own. Humor was often made at his expense back in London for his enjoyment of 'womanly' activities, but on any regular day these taunts couldn't hope to make a dent in his thought process.

There was no such thing as a regular day while entombed in Count Dracula's castle.

Thus, a nature Jonathan was utterly foreign to began to awake within him. He found the desires to disobey appealing, the wanting to blatantly trample upon the rules laid out for him by his host more alluring than ever before in his life. The Count had already violated everything from his private correspondences to his personal perimeter, so why shouldn't he bite back a little? He already desperately sought a distraction from the dark feelings of suspense and impending disaster, which had spawned from discovering his captivity within the old fortress, so perhaps exploring his prison would provide the diversion his unsettled thoughts needed.

Being a man of class and dignity, Jonathan was not one to rush blindly into the breaking of a rule, so for many an hour he sat upon one of the many glassless windows in the west-facing tower, watching sunset after sunset and carefully planning his coming disobedience. As soon as the comfort of the sun's rays dissipated over the horizon, he made his way down to the dining hall to have another nightly discussion with the Count, whom he distracted continuously with questions on the subject of Transylvanian history. While the old man launched himself into stories detailed so vividly-almost as though he'd seen them himself-Jonathan rested his cheek on his knuckles, keeping his eyes intently trained on the Count but letting his thoughts waver back to his plans.

One particular night, as the Count rambled on about a particularly bloody battle fought against the Ottoman Turks, and the wolves howled in a chorus of dozens just beyond the gates, Jonathan's level of excitement reached a degree of shamelessness. He had finally decided upon which of the Count's rules to break, one he knew his host had been intensely serious about while explaining it to him, and one knew would vex him beyond anything else.

Tomorrow Jonathan would spend the daytime hours combing the third floor of the castle for an unlocked bedchamber, and tomorrow night he would commit himself to spending every moment from sunset to sunrise there.

**ooOoo**

The last rays of sunlight slowly seeped out of the room, leaving the interior full of shadows and twice as much dust, it seemed, as there had been before. A good two inches coated everything from the mantle above the fireplace-which hadn't been used in centuries-to the doorknobs on the wardrobe, giving them the appearance of a fuzzy sort of fungus bulbs. When he'd entered the room early that morning, his face had been accosted by a large tangle of cobwebs, nearly solidified by the layers and layers of dust. He was quite sure the whole of it had yet to come out of his hair. The bed and its hangings had been absolutely foul with the stuff; he'd taken the entire spread of fabric off and dangled it out the window, sending a small avalanche of debris down to the evergreens below. After airing out the bed and disposing of any airborne dust rustled up by his disturbing the door, he deemed the room fit to retire in, and kept the giddiness of his discovery out of his expression for the rest of the day.

Now, as the gold and purple hues of the sunset at last faded from view and the silver light of the moon began to creep in, his excitement began to ebb. The shadows on the walls moved with each breath of wind, and with every passing moment (or so he assumed, for there was no clock nearby) the howling and baying of the wolves outside drew nearer and nearer, until he was sure the whole pack of them was seated right beneath the window, as if they knew he was where he ought not to be.

Minutes turned to hours, and as the sounds of the wolves faded a bit and were replaced by the peaceful hooting of a nearby owl, he found himself at least calm enough to lie back on the bed, feeling a small cloud of dust rise from the pillow in a puff. He prayed silently for his heart, which beat so erratically he was sure the Count would hear it and find him, to quiet itself and allow him a precious few hours of sleep. His attitude on the subject of disobedience had subsided, and he would be quiet happy when the whole mess was over and done with. He'd never intended to be discovered by his host, he only wanted the secret pleasure of knowing he'd managed this behind his back. His heart beat returned to normal, and as the moon rose ever higher and bathed his body in lustrous light, he felt a bizarre sense of peace wash over him. His eyelids twitched, and at last, glorious sleep came to meet him.

**ooOoo**

"Jonathan…"

A velvety, seductive voice, unlike any that had before met his ears, was calling to him as if through a dense mist. He felt an overwhelming need to respond, yet he could not. His body felt as though it weighed a thousand tons and was completely submerged.

"Jonathan…come to me…"

How badly his body ached to respond, to follow the command without delay, but he was anchored down. His frustration began to burn inside of his torso, so it seemed, and ran down his body like a flooded river, flushing his skin and sending unfamiliar and frighteningly heavenly sensations towards his groin.

"You will be mine…"

The words came from much closer, as though the speaker's lips were dancing against his ear, and the weight pinning him broke as he gave a wild thrust forward.

He came back to reality rather violently, and discovered first and foremost that his wrists were bound in the shape of an X above his head, protruding slightly off the edge of the bed where he lied. His ankles were bound as well, but separately, to the two posts at the foot of the bed. His vision was clouded with complete darkness; even the moonlight had vanished. Finally, as the changes in his surroundings had a moment to sink in, he realized he wasn't alone.

A hand, smooth as glass and chilled as a winter morning, was gliding up and down his abdomen. His shirt had been bunched around his pectorals, the buttons turned inside-out and rubbing his nipples with each breath. He could feel the fingers splayed across his stomach, squeezing ever so slightly here and there, raising gooseflesh wherever they touched. His captor was straddling his hips, and as his eyes adjusted to the sheer darkness, he could see the outline of a man above him, balancing himself against one of the posts at the head of the bed. From what Jonathan could make out, the man above him was well-built with hair that hung just below his ears, and had a slight wave to its texture. He could make out nothing else, and before he could open his mouth to demand the man's identity, he spoke.

"I warned you, my young friend…I warned you."

Jonathan could almost hear the sneer in the man's voice, and even though the man seemed to have dropped at least forty years in age, he knew exactly who was speaking. He said nothing in response, instead grinding his teeth in a scowl and making a low sound of frustration in the back of his throat. The humiliation was almost too much to bear, knowing who had caught him in such a vulnerable position.

Dracula chuckled-a low, sinister laugh-and removed his hand. The bed creaked as he let go of the post and sat back, putting his weight on Jonathan's groin. The latter arched his back as far as it would go, for an erection had grown during his erotic trance, and the Count's movements weren't helping matters. He knew Dracula could feel the hardness below him, and he knew the sneer he could so vividly picture was mocking him.

"Men like you are so easily predicted," the Count's voice rippled over him like the smooth note of a flute, "So easily tempted into sin. The concept is truly…mouthwatering."

With that, he came forward. He laid himself comfortably on top of Jonathan's body, pressing them together chest to chest. His nimble, frigid fingers undid the remaining buttons and slid the sides of his shirt away, and Jonathan could feel breath that was just as cold whispering against his collarbone. He felt the Count's tongue slowly caress his skin, following along with every dip in his skin on its journey upwards until he reached the junction behind his ear, where he puckered his icy lips and sucked on the skin. Jonathan shivered and strained to move away, but the Count's grasp was like steel; he was completely immobile. Dracula's tongue traveled down along Jonathan's jaw line, pausing now and again to suckle on the skin. Just before reaching his chin, the Count trailed his mouth down to the soft flesh of Jonathan's throat, removing his mouth completely and breathing more heavily against his skin. He seemed to be hesitating. He pushed himself up and hovered over Jonathan, and balancing on one palm, he lifted a hand to the same place on the Englishman's throat. With his long, pointed index nail, he slowly sliced a tiny cut, and immediately dropped back down and pressed his open mouth to it, lapping at the trickles of blood fiercely, pulling at the edges of the small wound and making them sting as it widened. Blood leaked out and around the Count's lips, and he swirled his tongue in circles, ensuring that he would catch every drop. Through his terrified stupor, Jonathan could sense a change in the Count. His behavior was suave, contained, as though he had complete control of every action and reaction he made. This was different; his movements were quick and sharp, and his demeanor regarding Jonathan's fresh wound bordered on desperate.

With a final, rough suck to the wound, Dracula released his throat. He was breathing heavily; Jonathan could hear him licking his lips hungrily and knew he was lucky the Count had not taken more blood. Dracula took a fistful of the dusty sheets and pressed them to the mouth of the wound, blotting the blood flow until it began to cease.

"Someday, every drop will be mine," the Count's voice had regained most of its composure, despite the wavering when he spoke of Jonathan's blood, "but that time is not tonight, my friend. You will sleep now and live to see another sunrise."

On the Count's command, it seemed, Jonathan once again felt drowsy and slow. He was fading back into unconsciousness, and any effort to keep his eyes open seemed futile. The dark world around him blurred once more, and the mist behind his lids returned. Just before he drifted off, he felt the Count leave the bed and speak one last time.

"Men are not the sole creatures that fall to temptation. Tomorrow night, you will retire to your own bedchamber."


End file.
